The Beginnings of Violet Baudelaire
by A Grammatical Daisy
Summary: How Violet Baudelaire was made. LemonyBea, then BeaHusband. Rated M for Adult themes. Not for the faint hearted. Please R&R.


Disclaimer- I do not own any of the characters used in this story. And I hold the greatest respect for Lemony Snicket and the author who uses him as a Pseudonym- I do not suggest anything, and I'm using only the character.

Happy Reading!

Knock once.

Then knock again.

Then rap five times and make a noise like a sleeping gorilla choking on a banana. Then knock again, and make a noise like its horrified children watching. Then drum your fingers on the wood twenty seven times, before sliding an orange paperclip under the door. Only then will you be allowed access.

As I was, all those years ago, to the house of the Baudelaires, nine months before. It was a warm evening in September, the kind on you can do nothing useful, but instead sit, and watch the dying flies buzzing at the windows. I heard the click of many locks being undone, and all at once, the door slid open, allowing me access. And there she stood, Beatrice, her long, chestnut hair tied up with a ribbon.  
"Lemony!" she hissed at me, "I thought I told you not to come! You'll have to go- my fiancé will be back any minute!"

"What I've got to say won't take long." I said hurriedly, taking her hands in mine. "Beatrice, do you still love me?"

"Yes." Her answer seemed sad, forlorn, lost.

"Then why the hell are you marrying him, instead of me?"

"Lemony, I told you before! We can never be together. You're never here- you're always off doing something with Kit, or Jacques-"

"For God's sake, Beatrice, they're my family!"

"-but nevertheless, you never stay in one place for long enough. And I want to start a family- settle down, have kids, and he seems more the man to do that."

"You're a member of VFD. You know you can't "settle down"." I muttered darkly. She looked down at the carpet. She was wearing a thing, light yellow, summer dress, through which I could see every aspect of her glorious body. "Please, Beatrice." I begged, stroking her cheek. "Just once. That's all I ask."

She looked up, deep into my eyes sadly, and kissed me. I kissed her back, for one last time, and suddenly, I don't know how it happened, she was leading me upstairs, still kissing me, to the bedroom. I slid my hands down her back, and hers slid down mine. The buttons down the back of her dress were loose, and fell away softly, the dress landing on the floor in a heap, and all of a sudden, there we were, her warm flesh pressed up against mine and the wall. I felt myself swell, and she kissed me, again and again, until, just before we began, she pulled away. "No!" she cried, "Stop! We can't do this. It's the wrong time of the month! I might get-" But her words were lost as the passion escalated. We made sweet love, our bodies mingling and intertwining, and our bodies became hot, soaked with sweat. She mopped my feverish brow, while I explored every wondrous piece of her femininity.

Until we heard the key, click in the lock, and the door slam. She shrunk away from me at once, and began kicking my clothes under their bed.

"Hide under there!" she hissed, drawing the curtains and lowering the lights.

"I love you, Beatrice." I whispered, as I obeyed, as she climbed into the bed and pulled the duvet up over her. In a second, I heard the door creak, and her fiancé had entered the room.

"Guess what I found at the pub- Oh, sorry. Didn't realise you were asleep." He whispered, adjusting his tone from a drunken bray.

"I'm not asleep." I heard her tell him. "In fact, I've been waiting for you." I heard the soft crinkle of cloth, as she pulled back the duvet.

"Oh." He smirked. There was an edge to his voice that made me feel highly uncomfortable. "We'll see about THAT!" I heard them giggle, and the soft thump of a belt and cloth falling to the floor, before the heavy squeak of the mattress swings as he joined her.

Oh reader, bitter silent tears did I cry, as I lay under their bed, forced to listen to the sounds of their passion. I lamented then what might have been and what could never be, replaying the last few hours in my head like a bad film, such as Zombies in the Snow, played on loop. Until I began to hear sounds from above that angered me, that angered me so greatly I could easily have jumped up and torn him limb from limb. I listened as Beatrice's occasional cries of pain became louder, and more and more frequent. I listened to her frantic begging, her pleading with him to stop, for he was hurting her. I listened to the soft sucking sounds, the creak of the mattress springs as he became more and more aggressive, until the only sound that was left was that of her muffled sobs, her face pressed into the pillow.

"Please!" I heard her implore, "Never do that to me again. Please!"

"I'll do whatever the hell I like with you! You're mine now!"

I heard her crying get louder. His words were slightly slurred from the drink.

"I'll do as I please, depending on how good you are as a loyal, meek, obedient wife. I say jump, you jump. Don't you ever be so SHAMEFULLY PRESUMING, SO STRONG WILLED, AGAIN! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

There was silence. I heard him slap her face, hard, making her cry out. "ANSWER ME!"

"Yes." came her muffled response. In that moment, I could easily have reached into my jacket pocket, pulled a gun and shot the man who tortured my beloved so. But I did not.

"Then stop your crying and go to sleep." All at once, his voice was quite normal. "Things'll look better in the morning."

There was silence for a long time, but eventually, I heard him begin to snore. I dressed silently under the bed, and crept out from my hiding place. At the door, I turned and looked back at her. She was still awake, and the look she gave me, the hollow, sad, hopeless look, will haunt me until the end of my days.

"I'm sorry." I whispered, and, like the repulsive insect I am, I slunk away, into the shadows. And the child she bore nine months later was mine; I knew this the moment I laid eyes on her. She had her mother's hair, and her mother's eyes, but her hands, with their delicate, milky white long fingers, were mine. She looked nothing like her supposed father, but he never suspected a thing. I must admit though, although I would dearly have loved to father both Klaus and Sunny, they were both his own, in circumstances it disgusts me to imagine. I only hope that through chronicling this, the beginning of their journey, I will have given insight to what a brave, courageous woman Beatrice was. My Beatrice.


End file.
